


fireworks beneath our feet

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, figure skating AU, happy ? maybe ?, lots of skating, post olympic fluff, we all need more skater!au louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:47:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis is a prodigy on the ice with nothing figured out in his own life. harry somehow gets caught up in his dreams of gold.</p><p>(or the one where louis fights his way back to the top and harry just happens to get tangled in along the way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	fireworks beneath our feet

**Author's Note:**

> having never actually figure skated, everything in this fic came from research or the Olympics and me wishing i had that sort of talent. anyways, we all need an excuse for some skater!louis because there surely isn't enough of it in this world.
> 
> excess of parenthesis and italics and all those good condiments i tend to overuse. oops.

 

Louis doesn't know himself. He doesn't understand who he is, who he hopes to be, or what he wants.

 

_(Louis just loves to ice skate. Louis is ice skating.)_

And that's how Louis has always defined himself--a pair of skates, a rink, and hours devoted to perfecting the _one_ thing Louis understands about himself: he is made for the ice. It's his calling--and really, who is he to say no?

His parents, his multitude of coaches, his friends--that's all they know Louis as. The twenty year old prodigy who is utterly devoted to ice skating. The kid who practiced his triple-axle until his ankles were swollen and bloody. The kid who won gold at the _ISU Grand Prix_ when he was just sixteen. The kid who suffered a tragic back injury that nearly ended his ice skating career.  

 

Louis remembers the injury--the blinding hot pain streaking through his back, his legs, his _whole body_ like a shot of lightning, stroking its white-tipped fingers of energy through every fiber of his being. Louis also remembers being terrified, but not for the reason he should've been--he was scared of losing himself. If Louis would've lost skating that year he threw out his back, Louis wouldn't have just lost his one true passion--he would've lost everything he built his life up for.

 

But he didn't. Louis is lucky. That's what the coaches, the doctors, the experts, and the rest of Louis' team say. _Louis is lucky._

It just took two surgeries, rigorous psychical therapy, and _three years_ of precious time.

 

Louis knows he should be thankful, but three years is too much to waste. He missed his qualifications for the Olympics, and that's what he'd been working _so_ hard to achieve--all the hours of practice and the swollen ankles and the never ending feeling of _determination_ all went to waste. The Olympics came and went and Louis watched at home, choking back bitter tears and angry cries.

 

_(that should've been him.)_

 

But Louis--Louis Tomlinson is _not a_ quitter.

 

The year he got back from his injury, his parents threw everything at him again. Louis temporarily moved to America to train with some of ice skating's greats, dropped out of college, and again lost himself to his sport. That distinction between _Louis_ and _ice skating_ soon blurred into one line again.

 

Louis is sure nothing will hold him back this time. No injuries, no stupid mistakes, no _failure._

Louis doesn’t leave room for anything less than success.

 

( _he doesn’t even leave room for himself.)_

But that’s all right, it really is.

 

( _because Louis is chasing dreams of gold.)_

 

*

 

_"Louis Tomlinson lands the triple-axel with immense grace! We've always said the triple-axel is his ace card, but it's amazing to see how tight his form is in the air, especially his carriage over the ice! Absolutely amazing--the judges will eat that up. Expect a top technical score out of this one; simply brilliant--"_

"Mate?"

 

There's a tap on Louis' shoulder. He jumps, nearly, upsetting the bowl of pasta he'd been eating.

 

"Been watching old skating tapes again?" Zayn's grin swims into view. "I remember this short program you did. It was incredible, man. Really."

 

Louis grunts, but doesn't say anything. He earned a 96.23 for that program-- his personal best, but still not _enough._ Louis sees errors everywhere--in his landings, in his air position, in his angles. It's all _wrong._

"If I want to qualify for the Olympics and stand a chance, it has to be less sloppy," Louis sighs, flipping off the tv. "You should've heard my mum-- she said my footwork after the quadruple jump was terrible. Went on for hours about it."

 

Zayn sighs and ruffles Louis' hair with his hand. Louis doesn't move into the touch--he's feeling overwhelmingly bitter. His mum is right--there are so many little things wrong with his short program, and he hasn't even _touched_ his long program yet. It'll be a miracle if he can fix it in time.

 

_(the clock is ticking--twenty-three months until the Olympics.)_

"Wanna go catch a film or something?" Zayn asks causally, trying to pull Louis out of his mood. He's spent years watching Louis beat himself up over ice skating--being the son of Louis' coach meant he's had ample time to observe him. He knows what Louis is doing. "We can go see that new Avenger's film."

 

"No," Louis says flatly, throwing the remote to the side. "I'm gonna go skate. I need to cool down a bit."

 

"You have that session tomorrow morning though," Zayn reminds him with a shake of his head."You're going to be whipped, Louis, and tomorrow is important!"

 

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Louis replies coolly. "You know how it is--I just _need_ to, Zayn. Need to get things in the right place."

 

Zayn sighs and closes his eyes. He wants to argue with Louis, but it’s literally useless. Louis would go skate right now, even if Zayn broke his left toe.

 

"Get your stuff, you overworking slag," Zayn mutters with a shake of his head. "I'm going with you. Nothing better to do anyways."

 

"Thanks Zayn," Louis grins, bolting off the couch. He hobbles on his bruised ankles, but doesn't let the pain show. "Thanks for always understanding."

 

Zayn waves him away and picks up the remote as Louis flies off to his bedroom for his bag. He flicks through the channels, humming under his breath when something catches his eye--

 

" _Talk about new Olympic superstar Nick Grimshaw?"_

Zayn freezes and watches the little clip on the news. It shows a picture of a rosy-cheeked, bright eyed boy with quiffed hair and a winning smile. _Long lean legs, thin build, and graceful height_.

He has the _perfect_ shape for an ice skater--Zayn knows these things, being the son of an internationally acclaimed coach. He's never skated in his life, but he knows more about the sport than he'd care to admit.

 

The piece continues on about his late upshot onto the scene and the stir he's causing. Another picture of his crookedly happy smile, another few praises on his talent, and then one comment that makes Zayn's blood freeze--

 

" _How do you think Nick Grimshaw and Louis Tomlinson will size up at the upcoming Olympics? Both are heavy favorites for qualification, and both display amazing proficiently in the sport... we'll be watching the pair closely as the Olympic season approaches--"_

Zayn flicks off the tv with alarming speed, his heart racing. Pictures of the new skater flash before his eyes--the innocent smile, the messy hair, the flushed cheeks. He has a way with the crowd that Louis has never had--Zayn knows that already.

 

_(he also knows this kid is dangerous.)_

If Louis beats himself up over what his ice-skating-illiterate _mum_ says, then he'd probably drive himself mad with the idea of a new star stealing his spotlight. Louis has never been _second-best_ \--the word doesn't even exist in his vocabulary--and Zayn shudders to think what he would do if he learned that his position on top is being threatened by a pair of warm brown eyes and floppy hair.

 

_(Louis would skate himself to death; literally.)_

"Ready to go?"

 

Louis is standing behind him, cheerfully oblivious of what just happened. Zayn lets out a shaky breath and nods, trying to mask his flux of emotions.

 

"Yeah, Louis. let's go."

 

  _(the name 'Nick Grimshaw' still burns in the back of Zayn's mind.)_

_*_

The ice is clean, fresh and untouched. Louis runs one hand over the cool surface, breathing in the sensation of _cold_. The ice hums in response; it always does. Louis and the ice always have had a special understanding--and some people think it's ridiculous, but Louis is adamant in the belief of learning the sport 'from the ground up.'

 

This particular practice ice is his favorite, considering it's basically _his._ Sure, other skaters are allowed to come and practice when Louis doesn't mandate a clear rink, but that's rare. He's protective over his territory.

 

"Are you gonna skate or are you gonna pet the ice?" Zayn calls from the stands. “I didn't come here to watch you seduce frozen water, mate."

 

"Shut up," Louis laughs sheepishly, allowing the rare smile to light up his features. "You don't have to watch me skate. I'm not gonna do anything impressive."

 

"You know I like watching you, loser," Zayn rolls his eyes. "I’ve been doing it since I was four."

 

"It’s still a shame you didn't get into skating with me," Louis grins, lacing up his skates with force. He throws his blade guards to the side, near his bag. "We could've been the first all-male pair."

 

"Not quite sure that would've flown with the ISU," Zayn chuckles, pulling out his phone. He scrolls through his music and plays the song _Let's Dance to Joy Division_ by The Wombats. The sound echoes around the empty arena. "Besides, ice skating is too big of a blow to my masculine pride."

 

It's Louis' turn to roll his eyes as he steps onto the ice. His ankles protest strongly--he wobbles a bit--but it isn't anything Louis isn't used to. His skates need to be refitted when his parents find the finances. They could've been fixed last week, but Lottie really needed new clothes for school, and Louis figures he's sucked enough of his parents' time and money away to be selfish and demand his hand-crafted skates be fixed before Lottie has _clothes._

 

So really, sore ankles are nothing.

 

Louis pushes off the ice and gains speed quickly, feeling the wind whip through his hair and brush across his face. The cold melts away all stress he felt earlier while watching his tapes--he feels truly _free._ No mum to nag on his posture or footwork. No coach to push him through jumps and spins and steps. No rigorous fitness training to get him back to his peak level.

 

_(it's just Louis and the ice and the reminder of why he fell in love with the sport.)_

 

Zayn claps wildly from the stands and Louis does some silly little moves he learned when he first started skating. They're all very basic and unentertaining--Zayn has seen much more out of Louis--but he still cheers like he landed two triple axles.

 

Louis is laughing and tripping on his skates, making silly mistakes. He scratches his hand on his blade in the process, but doesn't really _notice_ because he's on the ice and this is where Louis is really _Louis--_

 

_(he feels so happy he could burst.)_

Tomorrow will be hell, and Louis can already feel how sore he'll be in the morning. His body is aching from overuse, and his ankles are throbbing painfully, but he feels something close to contentment. Lately, skating has been an enemy for Louis-- _always getting this spin right, always fighting against this turn, or this step sequence--_ and he's forgotten how much of a friend it really is too.

 

"Louis!" Zayn calls, pointing. "You're bleeding all over the ice."

 

"Will I get extra style points for that?" Louis strikes a pose and lets the blood drip down his hand. "For intense _passion?"_

"You'll get laughed at from me," Zayn calls back. "You look stupid. Like _more so_ than usual."

 

Louis does a neat little spin and flicks Zayn off in the process before making his grand exit off the ice. He bows to the imaginary crowd of people with extreme exaggeration, then does a double-axel as a close. Louis lands it terribly. Zayn applauds like he'd just won a medal.

 

 _(and Louis just really loves Zayn.)_  

_*_

The first two weeks of training are _absolutely terrible._

Louis doesn't remember being so utterly _tired_ after every session with his coaching team. His body sags, his face is constantly pale, and he never takes time to even shave. Louis skates, eats, sleeps, and skates again. He does no more, and no less.

 

Still, Louis isn't one to crumble under the workload--he comes in and puts his best effort in every time he gets time on the ice. Louis still wants to get better. He has a goal, and he'll do just about everything to accomplish that goal, physically worn out and mentally beaten or not.

 

_(the Olympic clock is always ticking in his head.)_

Some days are worse than others of course. Louis will come back to his flat and collapse on his duvet without changing or showering or even _eating_ until the training session the next day. It's like he's in a coma--he doesn't stir when his phone rings, or when people knock at his door. Skating sucks the energy right out of Louis' system.

 

And then there are the good days where Zayn drives him home and cooks dinner for Louis (he's quite the chef) and they'll watch movies and play FIFA. Louis will question his choice in sport as they play soccer and Zayn will laugh and tell him it'd be a major masculine point increase. Despite Zayn's close background with skating, he still thinks it's rather fruity.

 

_(unless the girls are skating, of course.)_

 

Today is a good day, really--Louis had a tremendously tiring practice, but his step sequence was pristine. He is still glowing in pride long after he'd stepped off the ice--and Louis Tomlinson is _not_ one for self-gloating. He doesn't like to brag about anything, but it'd been nearly four years since he nailed his sequence like that.

 

So yeah, Louis is still humming in contentment as he makes his way to his car. His bag is slung over his shoulder, his skates hanging from his arms--

 

"Erm--your blade guard," a voice says slowly behind him. "It fell. Here, mate--"

 

Louis turns around, surprised--he didn't hear anyone--when his sight catches up with his thoughts.

 

Standing in front of him is a glorious boy. He's _beautiful beautiful beautiful,_ like _knock-the-air-right-out-of-your-lungs beautiful_. He has a pair of frozen jade eyes, partially obscured by ridiculously curly locks ( _Louis doesn't even like curly hair?)_ and pretty pink lips. When he hands Louis his blade guard, Louis swears he sees a dimple among his supple cheeks.

 

_(well then.)_

"Oh," he says flatly, "um--thanks."

 

"You're welcome," the boy says brightly. He holds out his hand, then hesitates. "I'm Harry. I-- I, er work here."

 

"Louis," he replies cautiously, taking the overly-large hand. It's warm, unlike Louis' frozen ones. "I skate here."

 

"Yes, I know!" the kid says eagerly, gracing Louis with another genuine smile. "I was watching your session! You know—when I was working--"

 

He trails off, clearly embarrassed. And Louis--well, Louis is _completely_ baffled.

 

"Well, thanks again," Louis nods, unsure of what to do. He gives a very forced smile and unlocks his car before throwing his training gear inside. The boy is still watching him with a mixture of embarrassment and eagerness as Louis pulls away.

 

And the whole thing really does baffle him.

 

_(except he forgets about it soon enough.)_

_*_

That night, Louis has a meeting with his nutritionist and his regular fitness checkup.

 

He's to report what he's been eating and go through his physical. It's all rather annoying, but since his back injury, his parents have taken all preventative measures. No one says it, but it's rare for a skater to return from one huge injury like Louis did, and he simply wouldn't have it in him to climb back up to the top if he were to get injured again.

 

And well—the meetings don’t necessarily go well.

 

With the start of training sessions, Louis has been eating a lot of take-out because Zayn hasn’t had the chance to cook for him. The result is a very unsatisfactory dietary report, and a harsh reprimanding by his nutritionist, Lou. Apparently Louis is lacking a concerning amount of potassium and iron in his diet, and if he chooses to ignore the meal guides Lou makes for him, she'll have no choice but to put him on supplements. The idea makes Louis shudder since he really _hates_ pills, but he knows Lou has a soft spot for him, and would rather stuff bananas and spinach down his throat before she sent him home with bad results to his coaches.

 

Louis' trainer is a little less forgiving, and _that_ checkup goes a little less pleasantly.

 

Erik doesn't have soft spots for anybody, really--Louis is sure he was an ex-marine or something. There is _nothing_ but coldness in his eyes when Louis tries to crack jokes or start a conversation.

 

His physical goes notably worse than his nutrition meeting. Louis has a mildly pulled hamstring and a rather bad knot in his back. The hamstring he can deal with--Louis has had many of those before--but the knot is in a terrible place. He's forced to stay extra time while Erik rolls out his back--which, of course, leads to questions.

 

"Your hand," Erik mutters, nodding down at Louis' fist. Louis is simply trying not to cry out in pain. "There is a bandage. What happened?"

 

"Not everything that happens has to do with skating," Louis says through gritted teeth. "I was—I was cooking, and--"

 

"I get paid to make sure you're healthy," Erik cuts him off. "Unwrap it."

 

The look he's giving Louis tells him this isn't any more fun for him than it is for Louis. He gets the feeling Erik genuinely _hates_ him.

 

So Louis unrolls it and holds out his hand—the injury is still scabbing over from that free skate night with Zayn. The incident had been a week ago, but the cut was deep and in a bad place for healing.

 

"A blade did this," Erik mutters, turning Louis' hand in his own massive one. "Your skates. Careless fall, Tomlinson?"

 

"Yep," Louis nods, and tries to be embarrassed about it. He'll take Erik's condescending laughter if that means he doesn't write the stupid cut in his report. His coach will know Louis has been free skating because Louis never makes that kind of mistake at practice. And free skating--well, that's simply not allowed.

 

Louis waits, breathless. Erik stares, then grunts again.

 

_(he has the tendency to do that.)_

"It's not my job to be your babysitter," he says after a while. "I'm reporting the hamstring and the knot, though. More stretch time and better eating habits will fix these, understood?"

 

Louis nods feverishly and pulls back on his shirt.

 

"You're also to miss training tomorrow," Erik continues. "That's to be spent _in bed_. Nurse the hamstring and have someone roll out that knot for at least twenty minutes. It's not bad, but precautions and such."

 

Louis thanks Erik again, and then hurries out of the office. Zayn texted him earlier, promising him a few drinks and maybe some clubbing, and now that Louis has a perfect excuse not to make training tomorrow, the idea sounds wonderful. In fact, Louis doesn't think he's ever been more excited _not_ to have training.

 

Louis dials Zayn's number and pulls out of the parking lot, grinning to himself.

 

*

 

Sleeping in is a rare treat Louis hasn't earned since he recovered from his back injury.

 

And well, the next day isn't any different.

 

Louis wakes up hungover and grouchy at seven in the morning. He doesn't know _what_ wakes him up, but it's enough to piss him off.

 

The first thing Louis is aware of is how s _ore_ he is--Louis goes through his stretches slowly while trying to come to terms with consciousness. His body is aching from skating, his mind is clouted with the remnants of alcohol, and he's _starving._ These are the times Louis wishes Zayn was around to make breakfast, but he disappeared with some girl late last night and left Louis to drive home totally intoxicated.

 

Louis settles for a protein shake with spinach blended instead. The concoction is thick and gray and terribly tasteless, but somehow Louis manages to choke it down. He _hopes_ Lou is proud of him for drinking _whatever_ the hell that was because Louis is feeling like he's going to lose the stupid shake. If it doesn't make him prefect his quadruple jump tomorrow, Louis will write Lou a strongly worded complaint.

 

_(except he won't.)_

The rest of Louis' morning is spent watching _Harry Potter_ in bed. He feels very _normal--_ no skating or schedules or routines to perfect. He's just Louis Tomlinson, watching films with a mild hangover and trying to digest a protein shake from hell.

 

And it should feel _good,_ but Louis is already terribly bored by time he finishes the first second film. Without skating, he really has nothing else to occupy his time, and Louis doesn't like being bored--it doesn't suit him.

 

_(he's again reminded how much he relies on skating for a sense of identity.)_

 

So Louis gets dressed in one of Zayn's jumpers and sweatpants, pulls a beanie over his tousled hair, and leaves his phone by his bedside. If anyone thinks to call Louis, they'll think he's just enjoying his morning off--which he _should_ be, but _whatever._

 

Louis pushes open the door and steps outside.

 

It's cool and crisp and very _fall-like_ outside. The thick, moist air holds the heavy scent of dying leaves intermingled with _earth--_ the raw, harsh aroma of the world around him. Rolling emerald hills, refreshed by last night's thunderstorm, surround Louis with a comforting presence.

 

Louis knows where he wants to spend his morning as soon as his feet hit the muddy path.

 

The walk to Louis' favorite tea house takes five minutes or less. He makes it in record time, considering the fact he hasn't had his daily cuppa and it's a bit chilly. Really, the quiet environment and mind-numbing scent of _tea_ is exactly what Louis needs at the moment.

 

_(except when he steps inside, it isn't the tea that takes his breath away.)_

 

Frozen jade eyes. Floppy curls. Ruddy pink cheeks.

 

There he is, slumped over a textbook. He doesn't even look up when Louis walks it--which should be a relief, considering Louis should distance himself from any sort of distraction--but Louis is sort of intrigued. _And well_ —constraint has never been a strong suit for him.

"Uh--hey," Louis says quietly, shuffling over to the boy's table. "You're the kid from the practice rink?"

 

The kid's head shoots up and his bleary eyes meet Louis' in utter bewilderment. He looks like he's just woken up--his curls are plastered to his cheeks, his face is outlined with recent sleep, and his pretty eyes still look hazy. He does a good job of hiding it though--he perks up right away when Louis recognizes him.

 

"Yeah! That's me," he says blearily, grinning at Louis with that ridiculously crooked smile and crater-deep dimples. “You're Louis, the skating extraordinaire.”

 

"Yeah, but today I just want to be _Louis,"_ he sighs, running a hand down his face. "Sometimes you want to have an identity outside of a sport, you know?"

 

"I guess," Harry shrugs, meeting Louis' gaze with earnest eyes. "You can be anyone you want to be around me, though. You can be Louis the famous acrobat or Louis the neuroscientist or--"

 

The boy prattles on and Louis chuckles to himself, slightly entertained by Harry's sincerity and innocence. It's maybe a little cute and maybe a little _intriguing_ - _-_ it's been a long time since Louis met anyone who could look past his accomplishments and talent to see a normal, twenty year-old underneath.

 

And Louis knows it's stupid and goes against everything his coach would advise him to do, but Louis has always been a bit of a rebel. It's been too long since Louis has had anything to distract him from the momentous task at hand--and well, Louis needs a companion.

 

"Harry," he interrupts with a small smile, "think I could join you for morning tea?"

 

_(the Olympic clock in the back of Louis' mind is silenced when Harry responds with a toothy grin and an overly-excited 'yes.')_

*

 

Louis really doesn't mean to spend all day with Harry.

 

It's just-- _one thing leads to another._ Harry is so normal and happy and _bright_ and Louis is caught up in the feeling of the sun. He basks in Harry's laughs and soaks up Harry's croaked smiles and allows the heat of the moment scald his skin.

 

_(Louis lives on ice, but he thinks he could stand the burn of the sun.)_

He returns home late that night with fifteen missed calls, an angry note from Zayn, and a rather threatening voicemail from his mum. The flat is cold and dark and empty, but Louis feels full and bright and _happy--_ all of which didn't come from landing a jump, or perfecting his angles.

 

Louis is happy being Louis, and really, isn't that all he's wanted all along?

 

_(does he really need a shiny gold medal to feel the same way?)_

*    

 

"The Grand Prix is in six weeks, Tomlinson. _Six._ You know what this means, right?"

 

"Yes," Louis mumbles, trying to avoid his coach's ferocious stare. "First big competition before the qualifications."

 

 _"_ More than that," he says, leaning in close to Louis' face. “This is your huge debut, Louis. How you do in the Grand Prix will set the tone for the qualifications. This will begin the buzz on the medal hopefuls. _Do you understand?"_

"Yes," Louis mutters again. He's severely annoyed-- _he doesn't need this right now._ He's in a shitty mood, and all he wants to do is text Harry and go for a cup of tea to relax or something.

 

"No, you must not understand it," Yaser snarls. "If you understood, Tomlinson, you wouldn't be skating like a wobbly-kneed fourteen year old. I’ve never been more appalled by a lack of _effort!_ If you don't come to work, then I don't want you coming at all."

 

Yaser spins on heel and storms off the ice, Zayn trailing sadly behind. He looks like he wants to stop and say something to Louis, but his dad is positively _fuming,_ and wouldn't have any of it. Besides, Louis and Zayn have kept their distance lately--Yaser has thrown a wedge between them. It's nothing out of the ordinary though--when competitions draw nearer, his coach likes to get rid of any side distractions so Louis can focus on the goal ahead.

 

And usually it's not an issue--Louis has given everything to skating--but lately he wants more of a personal life.

 

For example, he doesn't really feel the need to tell Yaser about Harry and watch him take away something Louis cares about. He doesn't feel the need to tell Zayn, or his family or _anyone_ for that matter, because Louis finally has something that's _his_ and his _only._ He doesn't have to share his time with Harry like he has to share all his efforts for skating, and it's really really _nice._

Since the day Louis stopped into tea with Harry, they've gotten along famously well. Louis is _Louis_ around Harry, and Harry is warm and blinding and everything Louis didn't know he ever needed.

 

_(Harry reminds him who -Louis- is.)_

 

Louis is not an idiot though--he knows this is disaster. He knows he's dancing around the heat of the sun, and he's going to get burned and lose everything all over again. He knows boys with pretty jade eyes and supple pink lips aren't the way to an Olympic medal, but he has to remind himself of the fact more often than he likes.

_(Louis finds himself losing the line between what he wants for himself and what other people want for him.)_

 

*  

 

Two nights in the future find Louis curled on the sofa and Harry asleep in his lap.

 

They'd made tacos and sang and danced and laughed over absolutely _nothing._ Sure, maybe they'd drank a little more than they'd like to admit, and _maybe_ it had been a little more intimate than Louis had intended, but it was harmless fun. Harry didn't _mean_ to fall asleep on Louis' lap like this, his curls fawning over his cheeks and his eyelashes thick and dark.

 

He's a student, and he's frazzled from a long week of school. Louis is frazzled from another terrible few days of practice. It was _needed._

Louis finds himself running his hands through Harry's pretty hair and sighing to himself.

 

_(he's lying to himself.)_

He knows he likes Harry more than he wants to admit. He can't deny the fiery burn he feels inside his chest whenever Harry rubs against him innocently. He can't pretend he isn't totally _fond_ of Harry's ridiculously quirky personality. And Louis can't lie--he's desperately hungry for the _taste_ of Harry's supple lips, or his fair porcelain skin--

 

It's bad. Louis has _it_ bad.

 

And still, not a soul knows except Louis.

 

_(the secret is positively thrilling.)_

 

*

 

Practice begins twice a day, and Louis has little other time for anything besides preparations.

 

Since his injury, he's forgotten what it means to completely throw himself at skating. He's forgotten the all-encompassing _excitement--_ visualizing the competition rink, hearing the roar of the crowd again, seeing the proud grins of his parents from the stands, seeing his sisters cheering wildly for him--

 

And so Louis falls back into his old mindset.

 

He begins watching his old skating tapes again and collecting information on new skaters expected to attend the Prix. Louis has heard tremendous buzz about a new star--someone by the name of _Nick_ _Grimshaw_ \--but he is completely under-radar, and Louis is frustrated with the lack of information on him.

 

The Grand Prix is in two weeks, and Louis can't think about anything else.

 

His short program is _perfection--_ Louis is so proud of it. He's finally gotten everything out of it that he could've ever hoped. Yaser actually _smiles_ when Louis finishes his practice runs because it really is that promising.

 

The long program is having some issues--not because Louis' elements aren't good (they're damn near perfect, actually)--but the organization is off. He can't choose music or transition steps between elements or costume-- _nothing is coming_. Yaser tells him not to worry--Louis has made tremendous leaps from three weeks ago, and if he continues on his track, the program will come naturally.

 

( _and then there’s life outside of the rink.)_

 

Harry still visits him nightly, but Louis rarely has any energy for anything more than films and talking. Harry is perfectly happy with that though--he always asks about skating and Louis and everything that's been going on between the two. _He's_ _genuinely interested too--_ he'll sit and listen like Louis is spinning the most fascinating tale, not describing his latest triple-axel.

 

Harry also plays nurse--he'll ice Louis' ankles and bandage his blisters and massage the tension out of Louis' body. It feels _sinfully good_ \--Harry has a magnificent way with his hands--but Louis knows it's utterly not platonic at all. There's just a _feeling_ about the way Harry lingers on Louis' upper thigh with this little knowing grin that's seriously _not fair._

Harry asks about the Grand Prix a lot.

He has hopeful eyes and sports his usual, happy grin. He says he's never been to a competition _for_ a skater before--especially in the family/friends section. Harry goes on and on about it like Louis has already asked permission from his coaches to even _allow_ Harry to show up--which he hasn't, of course.

 

_(Louis doesn't have the heart to tell him.)_

 

He knows he has to do something about it.

 

*

 

"Zayn," Louis sighs uncomfortably, "I need a favor. A big one, in fact."

 

"Let's see what I can do about it," Zayn grins, rubbing his hands together. "Go for it, Louis."

 

The words are heavy on Louis' tongue, and he knows he's going to regret it somewhere along the line--but he's doing this for _Harry._ He couldn't take the disappointed look Harry would wear if Louis told him he couldn't go to the Grand Prix.

 

"I met someone," Louis mumbles. "And it's a boy--he's really great, I guess. But I haven't told anyone because of the Prix and the stress of training and the fear of him being banned--"

 

Louis trails off and buries his head into his arms in embarrassment.

 

" _You met a boy,"_ Zayn repeats, a broad grin on his face. " _Finally!_ Oh my god, Louis. You should've told me sooner.”

 

"I don't think your dad would've been too pleased," Louis says sheepishly. His face is burning red. "Besides it's not like that--we haven't done anything, if that's what you think. He just hangs around a lot and maybe I like him."

 

"And you want to sneak him into the Prix," Zayn smiles, nodding with this _look_ on his face. "Without mummy and daddy and all the big coaches knowing your little secret."

 

"That's exactly what I want," Louis lets out a shaky breath. "Do you think you can do it for me? it'd mean a lot to both of us--he's always going on about how he wants to see me skate, but there's nothing I can really do when the _Nazis_ are around--"

 

" _Of course I can,"_ Zayn grins. "But I want to meet this boy first."

 

Louis smiles back, feeling tremendously relieved. It was the best thing to tell Zayn—he’s the last person to judge him for being _normal_ and succumbing to _normal_ feelings. Zayn has always had his back, no matter what the situation or the circumstances.

 

"His name is Harry," Louis says softly, not meeting Zayn's eager gaze, "and you can meet him tonight if you'd like."

 

*

 

The morning of the Grand Prix dawns bright and _cold._

 

_(Louis wakes up feeling like he choked on a concrete brick.)_

He forgot how to handle nerves since his injury. They seem so long ago--Louis remembers the thrill of the performance, but lost the feeling beforehand. Nerves never used to be a problem because Louis was young and confident when he last preformed on the Grand Prix stage—he didn’t slow down enough to let himself succumb to them.

 

Louis sits up and takes a breath, except he can’t really expel air. He needs to go to the balcony; calm down and taste the _winter_ in the Switzerland air—

 

_(Louis' chest pangs when he thinks about how excited Harry was to learn that they were flying out to Switzerland for the competition.)_

He quickly banishes the thought. _No Harry. No distractions._

Louis sighs and buries his face in his arms. There's nothing Louis can do at this point. He's practiced. He's visualized. He's reviewed. He's taken care of his body. He's perfected. And now--the only thing Louis has left to do is execute.

 

Simple enough, really.

 

_(except it's not.)_

*   

 

_"Louis! Over here!"_

_"What does it feel like to return to the ice stage again?"_

_"Any nerves about going up against new star, Grimshaw?"_

_"How does it feel to return after such a devastating injury?"_

The cameras flash. Microphones are stuffed into Louis' face. Bodies press against him from all angles, suffocating the little air--Louis can hardly breathe--

 

" _Clear out of here!"_ Zayn yells, pulling Louis through the crowd. "He'll take statements after the competition--don't make me call my father!"

 

Zayn gets Louis through the press of the crowd with relatively little damage. Louis is just looking like a deer in the headlights with a pale face and shaky breathing. _He's terrific, really._

"Louis," Zayn says firmly, cupping is face between his hands. The crowd has thinned, and now Zayn can see just how  _terrified_ Louis is. "This is what you are meant to do. Hear that crowd out there? That's for you, Louis. This is your stage. This is your moment."

 

Louis nods, licking his dry lips. He tries to focus on Zayn's words-- _he can't let himself drown among the tidal wave of nerves._ This is _his_ sport. This is what Louis does.

 

"Go get ready and stay in the tunnel until dad comes to fetch you," Zayn commands. "Listen to music and _do not watch. Focus on what you can do, Louis!"_

Zayn pulls him into a crushing hug, his eyes glowing with excitement. Zayn has faith in Louis. Yaser has faith in Louis. Harry has faith in Louis. His family has faith in Louis.

 

( _Louis has no faith in Louis.)_

 

He feels like he's going to be sick.

 

 *

 

_Dream-like._

That's what it feels when Louis steps onto the ice as his name is called.

 

His senses are on fire--the lights are blinding, the noise is _overwhelming,_ the smells are enchanting, and the cold bites through Louis' thin cotton blouse. He hears his name announced over the speaker system along with his age, and another roar of cheers erupts in the stadium.

 

Louis is staring at the ice, at his skates, at his shaking knees. He has moments before his program begins--the crowd is settling in and waiting for the music to start--and all Louis can think is now _not ready_ he is for this.

 

_(Somewhere in the stands, Harry is watching.)_

Louis throws that thought out of his mind and lifts his arms into the starting position. A fake smile glues itself to his face as he stares (and waits) for the music to begin. His heart pounds so loudly in his ears Louis is scared the judges will be able to hear from their panel. His hands are swearing profusely--Louis wildly thinks how lucky he is that he doesn't do gymnastics, or else his hands would surely mess up his elements--

 

And then the music starts.

 

 _Canon in D_ floods the arena, and a hush falls over the crowd. The music is soft and pretty--Louis has heard it so many times it's like second nature. His mind is not in the right place, but his body is--his muscles know what to do from sheer memory.

 

He takes the first step forward, and the wind rushes through his hair. Louis breathes. He listens to the sweet, dripping notes of the music. He feels the ice beneath his feet. He tastes the cool anticipation in the air. And he knows-- _Louis knows what he has to do--_

 

He lets himself go and melts into his performance.

 

*

 

The short program ends up being a disaster.

 

Louis knows before the music stops. He can sense it in the air-- _a confusion, almost._ This is Louis Tomlinson, the superstar who promised nothing but gold. This is Louis Tomlinson, who got injured and lost three years of his career. This is Louis Tomlinson, who's just delivered the worst short program in his career.

 

Louis can feel the bitter tears of anger as he takes his bow.

 

Smatterings of applause echo around the arena, but it's nothing like Louis usually gets. He doesn't even want their pity applause--he's just ruined any chances of making the Grand Prix Final, not even considering the Olympics. Louis made a _joke_ out of himself. _A joke._

"Tomlinson," Yaser says heavily, guiding Louis to the scoring booth."I know son. _I know."_

Louis covers his face with his hands as they pass the media corner. Questions are thrown his way-- _what went wrong, Louis? Are you too intimated by the growing field?--_ and Louis really, really just wants to disappear. Forget the terrible scores he's about to receive, forget finishing the competition, forget _skating--_ Louis just lost too much in the injury. In the end, it was too hard to come back.

 

"I want to get out of here," Louis mumbles tiredly. "Where's Zayn--?"

 

"Scores first," Yaser says gruffly. "Just get it over with, Tomlinson. It isn't anything we can't work on."

 

( _Louis wonders what Harry thinks of the great ‘prodigy’ now.)_

 

Yaser is pushing him towards the seat, and Louis swallows back any ounce of pride he has. He takes the tremendous step into the scoring booth and breathes _once, twice, a third time._

He stares the camera right in the lens with ferocity and waits, knowing _his_ face is all over the arena right now. He can't show how upset he is about the performance--emotional skaters aren't taken seriously. Louis has mastered the art of the poker face.

 

" _... Total score for Louis Tomlinson: 88.43!"_

It's terrible, but really--it could be worse.

Louis nods, makes a small wave, and marches straight out of the booth. He doesn't acknowledge the coaches, the media, the assistants directing him towards the tunnel--Louis ignores it all. He knows his family is waiting for him somewhere in the throng of people, but the last thing Louis needs is to face his mum's raging disappointment and his father's adverted gaze.  

 

Louis sprints through the back door and out of the arena.

 

_(88.43!)_

Louis collapses against the door and lets out all the emotions he's felt since last week. Heavy, hot tears flow down his cheeks, and racking sobs fill his chest. Louis _cries._

_(And no one is there to listen.)_

*

 

Harry is the first to find Louis.

 

He stands in front of Louis' slumped-over figure and watches quietly. He doesn't offer any apologizes. He doesn't spurt out assurances that he's fine. He doesn't throw a pile of wisdom on Louis' shoulder.

 

He just watches for a long, long time.

 

"Listen," Harry says softly, kneeling down in front of Louis. He grabs his chin and tilts it upwards so Louis is forced to look Harry in his eyes. "You're Louis Tomlinson the twenty year-old _person_ too. You're not just a number on a scoreboard or a qualification for a tournament."

 

Louis sniffles miserably. Harry brushes away his tears gently.

 

"Louis," Harry continues heavily, "you know that performance wasn't you. I think you lost sight of Louis Tomlinson the _person_ in the tidal wave of Louis Tomlinson the _figure skater_."

 

"I don't want a pep talk," Louis says bitterly, trying to twist free from Harry's grip. "I know it was shit--"

 

"Stop," Harry shakes his head and cuts Louis off. "This isn't about the performance. Over the last few months, I've gotten to know Louis Tomlinson the shining talent, and Louis Tomlinson, the average kid with set of eyes that are a little more than extraordinary. I'm one of the lucky ones who not only understands that you're more than skating, but _accepts_ it."

 

Harry pauses and leans forward unsure of himself. Apprehension clouds his frozen jade eyes.

 

"Louis, I love you," he says throatily. "And seeing you ruined like this over a performance-- _that isn't how it should be._ I love you as a person, I love you as a skater, I’d love you as a neuroscientist or acrobat--"

 

Louis laughs weakly, and tries to contain the pounding in his chest. His heart is racing like it did when he stepped out on the ice twenty minutes ago--except this is his prize. Louis' gold medal isn't waiting for him on the podium--no, his success is right here, leaning _ever so closer--_

"You're such a dork," Louis breathes, wrapping his fingers in Harry's curls and pulling him onto his lap. " _Why in the world would I ever want to be an acrobat?"_

Harry grins sloppily, his dimples softly cratering his cheeks.

 

“I think you’d look pretty hot swinging from a trapeze,” he says slowly, peering at Louis through his thick eyelashes. “Nice little body and such.”

 

"You _dork,”_  Louis sniffs again, but he can’t hide the affection on his face. He breathes in and smells _Harry--_ the soft masculinity edged with the scent of books and tea, all warm and inviting---

 

_(Louis kisses Harry, and it feels like he just won the Grand Prix.)_

*

 

Six months into the future finds Louis as a totally different person.

 

He's let go of past mistakes. He's less _intense_ in some regards--Louis isn't so strict on himself, but he still finds ways to improve his technical skills. He's much more mellow and disciplined in his actions, which is reflected in the last minor competitions Louis has done.

 

He's won first place in every single one.

 

Of course, they aren't on the scale of the Grand Prix--which Nick Grimshaw ended up winning, the _prick--_ but they're stepping stones towards the Olympics. After all, he only has six months left before qualifying begins and there really isn't any more time to waste on stupid mistakes.

 

( _Louis is relearning skating--not the jumps or turns or step sequences. He's learning maturity.)_

Some credit goes to Yaser, some credit goes to Zayn and his parents, but the majority of the change is inspired by Harry. He knows nothing about the technical side of skating--he couldn't tell you the difference between a quadruple jump and a triple axle--but he knows _Louis._ He knows Louis needs to learn how to appreciate himself as a person, and not just an athlete.

 

Harry is the only person who can give Louis that sort of love he needs, and he steps into the roll beautifully.

 

Of course, Yaser was wary when Louis introduced Harry, his parents were outright disapproving, and his coaches were all dubious, but they all eventually agreed Harry was the best thing for Louis. Harry can talk sense into Louis, unwind his nerves, and sooth his flaring temper. Harry has the power that no one else has ever had.

 

So--like it or not--Harry becomes part of the team.

 

_(and Louis couldn't be happier.)_

He can run into Harry's arms after trial sessions and not worry who sees. He can walk out of practice hand-in-hand with Harry without the stress of possible sightings. He can press kisses to his cheeks whenever he feels like it because Louis is _Louis,_ and Harry is what really matters to him.

 

The news of their relationship didn't stay private-- _word is bound to get out--_ but it didn't make _that_ big of a difference in his social standing with the rest of the skating world. Plenty of other big names harbor sexualities similar to Louis-- he's just the first one to do something about it.

 

_He's making himself happy for once._

It isn't perfect life, but Louis thinks it's a _pretty_ damn good one.

 

*

 

"My ankles," Louis groans, clamping his eyes shut. " _God they hurt so badly."_

"I can call Erik," Harry replies softly, running his hands over Louis' terribly blistered skin. It's black and blue and green and _ghastly-looking._ It's a surprise Louis made it through today's session. "He knows much more about this than I do."

 

"I'd rather run a marathon," Louis mutters darkly. "Erik is awful, Harry. Always yelling at me for how loose my skates are. He says it's my fault my ankles do this because I'm too stubborn to listen."

 

Harry bites the grin fighting to escape. He clearly sees a note of truth in Erik's words.

 

"You do wear your skates terribly loose though," Harry giggles softly. "And god knows you're stubborn as shit. Maybe a set of bruised ankles are just what your bloated ego need."

 

" _Bloated ego?"_ Louis snorts and leans his head into Harry's shoulder. "You're worse than Yaser, I swear."

 

"Someone has to keep you in line," Harry nibbles at Louis' exposed neck. "I pride myself on doing that."

 

"Yeah?" Louis says breathlessly. "How _exactly_ do you expect me to stay in line, hm? Going to skate me to death like the rest of the coaching staff? Put me through more fitness drills?"

 

"I have a more distinct set of skills," Harry mutters against Louis' collarbones. He lifts Louis, shirt up and traces his lips against Louis' sculpted abdomen. "They say I'm rather good with my _mouth."_

Louis fights to say something, but his voice is scraggly and weak. He can't do anything but watch as Harry's frozen jade eyes slip lower and lower down his body, a smirk on his face.

 

Pajama bottoms are pulled off in a feverish haze--which takes more effort than it should, considering Louis can hardly stand--but Harry gets him undressed and comfortably spread across the sofa. He crawls in between Louis' propped legs and licks his lips deliciously.

 

"Yes, I think it's time for an ego check," Harry says gently. "And I'd be more than glad to give you one."

 

( _Louis tilts his head back and his eyes flutter shut, totally fine with a bit of humbling.)_

*

 

_The Olympics._

A place of extraordinary wonder. A place of champions. A place for the world's best to gather under the flame of peace, tranquility, and _competition._

 

A dream Louis has grown up with since he started skating.

 

He's fantasized about the moment _he'd_ be the one standing under Great Britain's flag. The scene plays on constant loop all the time--when skating gets too difficult, when he wanted to quit, when he was just _thinking--_ this is all he could envision.

 

And now it's 2014 and Louis Tomlinson is standing in the Olympic Village of the Sochi Games.

 

There's a constant excited chatter around him--hundreds of athletes are preparing for the Opening Ceremony in an half an hour. They brush past Louis without much thought, clustered in groups with their countries. They all look _thrilled_ \--this is their moment, and they're sucking everything in.

 

Louis knows Harry would be reprimanding him for not joining in on the spirit of eagerness, but Louis is soaking it in differently. He wants to _immortalize_ this moment, not chase it with pictures or tweets or Facebook posts. This is _his_ memory, and Louis wants to spend it with himself. After all, Louis did this. Louis pushed past all the barriers and made it here. This is _Louis'_ dream--but it does not define him.

 

He isn't Louis Tomlinson the figure skater yet anyway. _That_ journey begins tomorrow with the team competition.

 

"Tomlinson," someone says nervously, tapping him on the shoulder. Louis recognizes Stanly Lucas, one of the ice dancers he'd seen at the practice rink. He's quite good--which is fortunate, considering he'll be representing Great Britain with Louis in the team skate competition. "Er--you should walk with us. You might lag behind and get stuck with the Russians."

 

A group standing behind Stanley lets out a collective snicker. Louis recognizes Nick Grimshaw among them--and though he still feels an old bitter resentment towards the Grand Prix champion, Louis gives him a respectful nod. Nick returns it with a bit of wonder.

 

They surely won't be friends, but they can come together for the team skate under Great Britain's flag.

 

( _this is his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.)  
_

 

"Well lads," Louis announces loudly, throwing an arm around Stanley’s shoulders. "We have a country to make proud!"

 

They all roar and pump their fists in the cold night air. Louis laughs and throws his head back, breathing in the feeling of being an _Olympian._ This is what Louis has worked eighteen years for, and he is _not_ about to waste it.

 

_(he raises the British flag higher on his shoulders.)_

*

 

The team skating competition positively _drains_ Louis.

 

But it isn't the bad type of tiredness--it's brilliant, fiery red _excitement._ Louis is giving some of the best skates he's ever preformed. In fact, between Nick Grimshaw and himself, they've broken an Olympic Record for highest short program scores. Great Britain's second place standing has much to do with their contributions.

 

They're the names on everyone's lips.

 

Despite the strong Russian skaters, Nick and Louis have brought an element of surprise. No one ever really expects Great Britain to saunter in on Russian soil and steal the _second place_ position right under the United States' noses, and threaten the Russian's long-standing dominance.

 

And when the solo competition starts in a few days-- _that's when the sparks will fly._

Louis is not only ready, but he's excited. This isn't the Grand Prix where he won gold. This isn't the Grand Prix where he didn't even qualify. These are the Olympics where Louis has made history and blown down any apprehensions anyone had about him.

 

Louis Tomlinson the figure skater is here to make a statement.

 

_(And Louis Tomlinson the person is here to speak that statement.)_

*   

_"Louis,”_ Harry’s hands are on his shoulders, and his eyes are glued to Louis' icy ones. "You're going to look at me, and you're going to listen."

 

Louis nods blearily. He fights the urge to peek behind Harry's shoulder and glimpse the scoreboard--it's begging him to look, to see what score he needs to push Grimshaw out of the first place slot--

 

"This isn't a competition against these other countries," Harry says firmly. "This is a competition against yourself. You're the only factor _they_ can’t control. Be unpredictable, Louis. Be _exciting._ Be the extraordinary I see in you, that Zayn sees in you, that _everyone_ sees in you. Be _yourself,_ Louis, because there is not a single fucking _skater_ that can compete with you when you're _Louis."_

"Medals," Louis croaks, biting his lip. "Harry, I have a chance to _medal--"_

"We aren't starting with that," Harry puts a hand up. "You're going to do what you do best. You're going to skate for yourself. Skate for Yaser. Skate for Zayn. Skate for _me._ But don't skate for that medal--it'll come itself."

 

There's a silence in the tunnel as the announcers clear the ice for the next round of skaters. Louis has thirty seconds to get up there and get on the ice, or he'll face disqualification.

 

"I love you," Louis says hoarsely, burying his head in Harry's shoulder. " _I love you._ I love you more than this all means to me, Harry, and I'll give it up in a heartbeat for you."

 

"Let's not do that quite yet," Harry chuckles softly, kissing Louis' forehead. "You might have to change careers and become a famous acrobat or neuroscientist--

 

"Jesus _Christ,"_ Louis rolls his eyes and takes a step toward the ice, despite the prattling intensity of his heart. " _This_ again?"

 

Harry winks and nods towards the arena, a pretty dimpled smile on his pretty face.

 

"Skate good, Lou," he says softly. "I'll be watching and cheering louder than anyone else."

 

He turns on heel and disappears into the crowd. Louis wants to call back for him-- _Harry is his sense of comfort--_ but his time is dwindling, and he will _not_ get a DQ for a late arrival.

 

"... _Representing Great Britain: Louis Tomlinson!"_

 

Louis takes a deep breath and steps into the blaring spotlight. Thousands of screaming faces materialize in front of him, but they're only blurs. His name echoes around the walls the arena. The thrill of being in the Olympic spotlight rushes over him like a tidal wave of energy.

 

_Skate good, Lou._

Louis gets into position, his eyes fixed on the ice. His skating career flashes before his eyes--his first pair of skates, his first time on the ice, the moment he knew this was his calling, when he won the Grand Prix--

 

The music starts, and so does Louis' body.

 

_(but Louis Tomlinson already knows achieved his dreams of gold.)_

Why?

 

Because there’s a boy with frozen jade eyes sitting in the stands for _Louis Tomlinson the person._ There’s a boy that sees him as more than a talent, that _loves_ him, that makes him _happy._

 

_(let the Games begin.)_


End file.
